Fallen Angel
by Diporae
Summary: Michelangelo one-shot. How do you save someone when they do not wish to be saved? After witnessing a disturbing tragedy, Michelangelo finds himself struggling to understand why. This is a dark fic and is rated M for its mature content. If you review please be respectful of the subject matter.


**A/N This is rated M for a reason. The content matter may be offensive and even disturbing to some readers. Please no flames and if you do review please be respectful of the delicacy of the subject matter. **

**Finally, I do not own TMNT but I am eternally grateful for their existence!**

Fallen Angel

Michelangelo did not realize what was happening until he heard that sickening crunch. The sound of organs rupturing, bones fracturing, and gravity winning. When the turtle first spied the individual on the high rise he automatically assumed they were just another Foot Ninja. The brief glimpse of her crimson dress before she disappeared proved otherwise. Michelangelo could not help but wonder if she deliberately chose to wear the colour of life's blood.

Screams filled the air after that nauseating sound. He should have gone straight home. He should have mimicked the approaching final journey of the crumpled body below and buried his curiosity. He should have never looked.

In the hours following his mind tormented him with both lies and truth. Maybe she had slipped? Maybe she had caught a glimpse of him and panicked? Maybe she had a little too much to drink? Maybe she had been high? Maybe angel dust gave her wings before her time?

He spent the remainder of the night not in his bed, but sleeplessly roaming the endless rooftops. Of course his brothers came searching, but they were not the only ones trained in stealth. They did not even pause as they passed their brother in the shadows. The light they sought had been replaced with darkness. Even the rising sun could not banish it from his heart.

It was late, but the turtle needed respite that did not come in the form of sleep. He knew the truth. Yet he had no answers. So when he saw the newsstands pull out the morning edition he did not hesitate. No one noticed that one paper's absence. The wad of black and white ink called him and he prayed as he read that their words would be enough.

The story he sought was there. It was not enough. It would never be enough.

It had been thoroughly planned and perfectly executed. Michelangelo's prayers had not been answered. It was no accident. And so the lies were falsified and the truth gave him no asylum. Crinkled red fabric. Sodden black gravel. Plastered blonde hair. All formed grotesque angles in the flicking streetlight of his memory. An image branded on the back of his eyelids and weaved into the fabric of his nerves.

He tore out the image of her face before the fall and released the remaining words to the wind. The voices faded in their wake but did not leave him enlightened.

Michelangelo had spent his life learning to save. He thought the world simple. Black and white. Good and evil. Villains and victims. Predictably, this basic dichotomy was challenged as he matured and altered accordingly as the innocence of youth gradually peeled away. The woman in red shattered it with a single step.

How could he save those who did not want to be saved?

He found his way home moving as though in a dream. His trance was broken not by the familiar sight of home, but the demanding voice of the eldest brother. Michelangelo met his eyes out of desperation. Surely his leader understood. Surely this brother knew why. Michelangelo wordlessly held out his hand that preciously guarded her image. His brother examined his cargo and for a moment Michelangelo felt relief that at last he would find the sanctuary he sought.

His leader finally lifted his eyes from the scrunched clipping. Those eyes fed the darkness in his heart for they held sorrow not wisdom, and yet strangely he found relief in ignorance. Michelangelo could never understand why and realized he didn't want to understand. To feel so alone. To feel so trapped. To feel that much pain. For such understanding the sacrifice was too great, and even then it would not make Michelangelo her saviour. It was not his role to play. He could save others, but he could not save fallen angels.

All he could do was pray for that angel in red.


End file.
